


lay yourself out, pick yourself up

by VivereLibri



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 07:50:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12428226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivereLibri/pseuds/VivereLibri
Summary: “Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.”― SenecaTamlin locks Feyre in, she loses control, Mor doesn't get there fast enough, and now all of the High Lords of Prythian feel something stirring.Rhysand knows he might be the only person able to help Feyre, but how can he get to her?OR I love Public Displays of Angst and Power Couples so I changed a story to make it so.UPDATE: I realized my italics didn't transfer over so if you started reading and got confused IT'S FIXED NOW





	lay yourself out, pick yourself up

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly forgot where this idea came from, but it's here. And it's just gonna be this one chapter. Enjoy.

_He’d trapped me in here; he’d locked me up._

_I stopped seeing the marble floor, or the paintings on the walls, or the sweeping staircase looming behind me. I stopped hearing the chirping of the spring birds, or the sighing of the breeze through the curtains._

_And then crushing black pounded down and rose up from beneath, devouring and shredding. It was all I could do to keep form screaming, to keep from shattering into ten thousand pieces as I sank onto the marble floor, bowing over my knees, and wrapped my arms around myself._

* * *

 

He felt her panic across miles and miles. Could hear her screaming as if she was right next to him.

Rhysand quickly moved into action, but not quick enough. By the time Mor got to the Spring Court, Tamlin had returned, drawn back by the power Feyre had unleashed.

Mor could have gotten her out, but not without violence. Rhys didn’t doubt her ability, but against a High Lord and his court she would be vulnerable. And he didn’t dare go in himself, least he make a bigger mess of things. Not yet, anyway.

Mor retreated, and Azriel tried to slip in her place. The borders of the Spring Court were locked tight. He could only get snippets from his eyes and ears, and what he got was not encouraging.

Rhys could feel it now—the little bit of Feyre that came from him. Of course, he felt her turmoil as well through their mental bond. But something separate from that hummed, the power that he had given her along with the gift of life. If he felt it, the other High Lords did too. It was only a matter of time before they sniffed her out.

If Rhys contacted Tamlin now, he couldn’t be sure how the High Lord of Spring would react. He wouldn’t invite Rhysand into his court with open arms. If Rhys sent a letter telling Tamlin he knew what was going on, the Spring Court borders would probably turn impenetrable. What would he do anyway if he got to the Spring Court? What could Rhysand do that Tamlin couldn’t, short of shoving his way into Feyre’s mind and taking control? The thought made him sick.

There had to be an option besides sitting on his ass and waiting, but he couldn’t see one. Could he bargain with another High Lord to go? Maybe Helion? But what business would Helion have with the bride of Spring?

_Feyre._ He tried to get to her again. The night was cold, the stars shimmered pleasantly overhead. The air helped keep Rhysand alert as he flew in circles over Velaris. His city was peaceful, but he was willing to bet the Spring Court was not. _Feyre darling, please answer me._

Nothing. He could barely feel her on the other end, and what he did feel he had no intention of going towards. It was ugly and painful, and as much as he wanted to support her, there would be no benefit of getting dragged down in her anguish.

A blast of emotion caused the rhythm of his flapping wings to falter, but he recovered quickly. She was in so much agony and confusion. He sent back whatever he could: the night sky, the feeling of flying, bonfires, the swirls of Illyrians tattoos. Anything and everything that once brought him comfort. No reply, not even a flicker of recognition.

When he winnowed back to his house, his Inner Circle waited in the sitting room. They looked at him, expectant.

“What are we going to do, Rhys?” Mor stood, face hard.

He knew she wouldn’t like his answer. “I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Bullshit.” Mor spat. “You could get her out by yourself—.”

“At what cost, Mor?” Rhys broke, shouting. “What happens after I break the wards of the entire Spring Court, kill sentries, and steal Tamlin’s bride from under his nose?”

Mor didn’t have an answer. She sunk back down into a plush couch, glaring at the roaring fire.

“Rhysand.” Amren spoke softly, but commanded the room. “Can you tell what her state is?”

He told them what he knew. Before, he only talked about Feyre to Mor, and that was only because he had been a pathetic mess when he’d come home and immediately told her everything. Amren neither had the patience nor interest in his relationship with Feyre, just the woman herself. Azriel and Cassian knew just enough about the human girl turned fae to tease him.

Now of course, he was laying everything on the table. If Feyre was in danger, the time for keeping his friends in the dark had passed. He told them about her emotions, about the thoughts and feelings she sometimes screamed through the bond. She was constantly using his power—a little hum in the back of his mind— which was worrying. And he couldn’t tell if she was moving or speaking to others. It didn’t feel like it.

Cassian rested his elbows on his knees, looking down. Thinking. Strategizing.

“That matches my reports.” Azriel said. “But there’s something else. Rhys, she destroyed part of the manor. It’s possible to see…what she’s doing from outside.”

“And what is she doing?” Amren snapped.

Azriel shrugged. “Losing control? Fire and ice, wind and darkness…Rhys she’s going to attract all the High Lords in Prythian, and then who knows what they’ll do to her.”

“Kidnap her. Fight over her.” Mor said flatly, eyes lost in another time and place. “Use her. Breed her.”

Rhys’s wings flared, darkness coiling off his shoulders. No. No, he wouldn’t let that happen. He’d keep her safe in his court, and if he couldn’t he would track down Miryam and Drakon and beg them to give her sanctuary.

“We won’t let it come to that.” Cassian said, raising his head. “Our military strength is considerable. If needed, we could hold our own against two, maybe three courts.”

“Stop talking about her as if she’s a prize.” Amren snapped. “She’s not. If she chooses to come to the Night Court, no one can object.”

Mor frowned. “Tamlin might. She’s his bride.”

A sour taste filled Rhys’s mouth. Engagements were not always so possessive and binding, but a High Lord’s bride? Even if there were few formal rules for this situation, the informal ones were well established. Feyre would have to be returned to Tamlin if she was taken.

“I need to get to the Spring Court.” Rhys decided. “I need to be there to give her the choice. Mor, write letters to all the High Lords to request to meet at the Spring Court. Just High Lords, no guards, to… offer assistance.”

Mor stood, but paused at Rhys’s shoulder as she walked out of the room. “Are you sure?”

No, he wanted to say. Feyre may come to her senses in the next minute and decide to stay with Tamlin, marry him, have his children, be a prisoner in the Spring Court for the rest of her life. But he’d regret it forever if he wasn’t there to give her an alternative.

“Go.” He nodded at Mor. The rest of them filed out with murmurs of reassurance or filling him in on their own plans.

Mor sent the letters late, but replies came quickly in the middle of the night. Everyone wanted to know what happened, where their power had gone. The terms were agreeable to everyone after some squabbling—just High Lords, meeting at the Spring Court manor. Only Tamlin’s sentries would be present, a necessary concession to even allow so many rivals on his territory. But he must be desperate too, for hours had passed and Rhys hadn’t felt a change in Feyre’s condition.

All seven High Lords of Prythian had saved her once. Maybe they could do so again.  
He couldn’t sleep, although he certainly tried. All night he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling and tracking Feyre’s feelings. She was sad. Angry. Defensive. Sad again. A mixture of all of them. Helpless. Defeated. Tired.

Maybe he should have just gone to the Spring Court with his Inner Circle and razed it to the ground. Damn the consequences.

Rhys took a deep breath, trying to calm the agitated whirls of darkness that whipped around the room. In a couple of hours, he would see her. He would get to assess her condition for himself.

In the morning, everyone gathered in the townhouse again, though they were silent. No one liked that Rhys was going alone, but knew better than to challenge him where Feyre was concerned. Time seemed to crawl. Rhys couldn’t occupy himself with menial tasks; his mind was with Feyre. Reports and letters waited for him to attend to, but they would not hold his attention that morning.

When it was finally time to leave, he stood without ceremony and said, “I’ll see you soon.” Then he was gone.

He winnowed directly to the outskirts of the manor and finally got a look at what Azriel’s spies had managed to convey. The front doors were gone, blasted away, and the wood and stone around them was broken and crumbling. Inside, the marble hall was cracked. A terrible wind formed a cyclone in the middle of the foyer, churning flame and ice and shadows and light. He could barely make out Feyre in the center. His blood boiled.

Most of the High Lords had already arrived with the exception of Kallias. Beron was probably eager to determine what Feyre had taken and how to get it back. Helion would be curious, but likely not harbor any ill will. Tarquin and Thesan were likely to be cautious, scoping out a threat.

Rhys walked up calmly, ignoring the silenced conversation. He halted a few feet away from the cyclone, catching glimpses of Feyre through the smoke. She lay crumpled on the floor, listless. Her eyes were half shut, and her chest barely rose with gentle breaths.

“You’ve left her here?” Rhysand’s tone was soft but threatening.

Tamlin growled, defensive. “I can’t get past her shields.” The next sentence went unspoken. Maybe one of them could. Rhys certainly would be able to.

He shook his head. “Where did she learn how to make a shield?” He asked it mostly to himself. It was obvious that Tamlin hadn’t taught her.

Behind him, there was a bit of activity when Kallias arrived. The High Lords murmured to each other, discussing the situation. Tamlin was tense, snapping at everyone. Helion and Thesan proved to be the voices of reason in the group, balancing out Beron the agitator.

_Feyre._ Rhys wondered if the shield would break if he glared hard enough. _I’m here. We’re all here. Please put the shields down._ Her body was still. She looked nearly dead, so pale and thin.

“You’re not helping things.” Tamlin gripped Rhys’s shoulder and shoved him backwards. Any other time, Rhys would have knocked him on his ass.

Instead he just snarled. “What the hell did you do?”

“I was trying to protect her.” Tamlin scowled, claws growing on his hands.

Rhys tried to calm his fury, but it was taking a lot of effort not to punch the male in front of him. “You’ve kept her in this house. You’ve smothered her. No wonder she looks like she’s dead.”

If she had been like this for a while, sooner or later she would be drained. But when the magic was out of her control, when it was being controlled by some sort of subconscious or instinctual part of her, would she simply exhaust herself? Or would the magic take her life first? His own distress peaked as he looked back at Feyre. Darkness stirred at his feet.

“We can get past her shields.” Beron crossed his arms.

Helion stepped closer to Rhys, doing his own inspection. “Maybe. But not without hurting her.”

“So?”

If Tamlin hadn’t leapt towards Beron, Rhys would have. Thesan grabbed Tamlin’s arm, hauling him back before he could attack Beron and start a war.

Tamlin shook, half-beast with wicked teeth and claws. “If you lay a hand on her I’ll tear you limb from limb.”

_Rhys._

Rhys actually startled, spinning around to face Feyre again. She didn’t look different. But her mind was there in a way it wasn’t before.

_Feyre. Feyre, I’m here. Let down the shields._

_Rhys._ She repeated his name, sending errant unconnected thoughts down the bond. She was worried that he was there, relieved, guilty for being relieved. Tired. Defeated. Worried. Worried about him. Why did she feel his fear?

“Rhysand?” Tarquin spoke from behind him. The High Lords were silent.

Rhys held up a hand, a request to be silent and wait. Then he stepped forward and put the hand on the shield of hardened air before him. _Let down the shield, Feyre._

Silence. _I don’t know how._

She didn’t know what she was doing, that much was clear. Anxiety and worry curdled in Rhys’s stomach. Her magic was going to tear her apart.

_Rhys._ The voice sounded a little alarmed now. A spike of fear—and then acceptance. A thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

_“Feyre.”_ he said it aloud and in his mind, alarmed. _Don’t say that. Please don’t say that._ He pressed closer to the shield, not caring who was watching anymore. Let the other High Lords watch—this was his mate. He was allowed to show some emotion. Of course, they didn’t know anything about the relationship between him and Feyre. They probably thought he was her tormentor.

Rhys’s hand on the shield fisted, and he rested his forehead on it. What was he supposed to do?

The males assembled behind him grew restless. “If you’re not going to get her to lower the shields, Rhysand, let us do it.” It was Helion, of all people, who said it. “We can manage without harming her too much.”

“No.” He scowled. One more attempt. _Feyre. I know you don’t know what you’re doing, but I need you to let me in._ He began walking her through it. Breathe. Calm down. Think of something happy. Sent her thoughts and images that had worked for him, techniques he hadn’t used in centuries.

Slowly, the maelstrom around her body calmed. The destruction Feyre had wrought could be seen strewn around her. Cracked marble, water and ash on the floor. Her dress was simultaneously soaked and burned. Next to her, an emerald rested. The gold that had gone with her engagement ring was long gone.

_The shield._ Rhys still rested on it. _Feyre, you have to lower the shield._

Her eyes, just slits barely open, fluttered. Rhys heard an intake of breath from behind him, then his hand fell through the shield. He quickly walked through.

“Rhysand!” Tamlin roared. Rhys spun around to where Tamlin was pounding on—on another shield. Feyre had locked both of them inside.

“Feyre darling, the intention was to lower the shield.” He said, trying to draw up some of that person he was supposed to play. “I’d really rather not get in between you and your fiancé.”

She didn’t respond, lifeless again. Then claws started growing on her hands, and fire followed.

_Deep breaths again, Feyre._ Rhys took a couple of steps away in case he was startling her.

Feyre shuddered. _Don’t go._

He froze. She sent along her feelings with it, she couldn’t help it. Oh, how lonely she was. He remembered that sort of loneliness. And here she was calling out to him for help. His mate, though no one knew. This extraordinary female who he was falling for—had fallen for?—and all he could do was try and play a part to hand her over to another male.

Was that his only choice?

No. He could shed the skin of his disguise and truly help her. The other High Lords could make of it what they would—perhaps he would just be a monster plotting to steal the maiden, or maybe they would start to question who the High Lord of the Night Court really was. In that moment, it didn’t matter.

Rhysand took a step forward. Then another, and another until he was in front of Feyre. He knelt, then lay on his side to face her. _I’m here._

This time, he said it with conviction. He was there, he would always be there. Whatever she wanted from him, whatever she needed. He felt no hesitation in sending those thoughts across the bond.

Tamlin shouted outside the shield, practically foaming at the mouth. Rhys spared one look for him. “Shouting isn’t going to help her.”

Then he shut out distractions and focused on Feyre. He didn’t want to delve into her mind, but rather guide it out. She was _there_ on the other side of their bond. A confused mess of feeling more than a person, but there.

He began the arduous process of guiding her through, leading her back to her senses. What did she feel, hear, smell? Rhys lay a hand palm up between them. _Take it when you’re ready._ Another person’s touch could be repulsive, as he well knew. But it could also be healing.

It could have been seconds or days that passed, but eventually Feyre twitched, and her eyes opened. They were red from crying, ringed with purple shadow. But she gazed at his hand. It seemed to take a mountain of effort, but she reached out anyway. Inching forward until her fingers brushed his. He made the rest of the journey, holding her small hand in his. Had she always felt this frail? Even as a human, she had seemed stronger. Rhys had kept her angry and alive then. He wondered if he could bring her back that way.

But he had very little desire to anger her, and that probably wouldn’t solve anything. What did she need? What could he do now?

They stared at each other. Laying on the broken floor of the manor at the Spring Court, they just stared. Rhys found himself caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. His gaze darted to their hands, momentarily put off guard, and he stopped the movement.

The corner of Feyre’s mouth twitched. Not a smile, not even a shadow of one, but movement.

_You are amused by my discomfort._ He jokingly accused her. _Cruel woman._

He waited a minute for a response, then her fingers twitched in his. _You make it easy._

Rhysand didn’t care if all of Prythian could see how he was beaming. She was coming back, slowly.

With her mental shields down, he could feel her come back to reality. She registered her aches and pains, how tired and weak and hungry she was.

“Want to sit up?” He whispered. Feyre responded to his touch, now she needed to respond to his voice.

Her brow furrowed, but she nodded gently. He pushed himself upright, and then pulled her up with him. Feyre had to lean against him, barely able to hold her head up. The dress she wore looked too big for her, and her hands shook a little.

What was he supposed to do next? With Feyre in this state, Rhys couldn’t imagine handing her over to Tamlin. He tried to stall, looking for a way to keep her with him for longer. The more time he spent with her, the more he would bring her out of her shell.

Give her a choice. That’s what he had to do. Make her choose in front of all the High Lords, bring her to the Night Court, and then stuff her with the food and art and music of Velaris.

Rhysand pulled a water skin from the pocket realm and held it out for Feyre to take. A flicker of familiar determination came through from the bond. Though she still shook, her hands reached out to take the container, unscrew the cap, and take a sip.

“Slowly.” Rhys murmured, watching her like a hawk. “If you drink too much you’ll get sick.”

A laugh almost sprung from his mouth when he felt her irritation. _I’m not stupid._

He was sure she didn’t mean to send that to him, but he was delighted anyway. As she drank, Rhys held out a hand and conjured some thin crackers. She ate those slowly too. As she drank more water, he conjured an apple and a knife to start cutting pieces for her.

Outside of their little bubble, the High Lords and some Spring Court sentries lingered, muttering to each other. He could tell Tamlin was reaching the end of his rope.

“Feyre darling,” Rhys said. “Do you think you could try and lower the shield now?”

That was the wrong thing to say. Rhys had to throw up his own shield to defend himself from the icy wind that Feyre sent out, battering him. He leaned back, throwing up an arm to defend himself.

_The shield stays up._ He assured her. _You’re fine. The shield is there. I won’t make you tear it down._

Feyre tottered before regaining her balance. Her hands were braced on the floor beside her, and she looked vaguely green. That had been too much magic. Rhys let her have her space as she recovered, blinking slowly and shaking her head.

_Feyre?_

She opened her mouth to speak, but only a croak came out. She cleared her throat. Tried again. Whispered, “I want to stand.”

“Okay.” Rhys scrambled into a kneel, holding out his hands for her. She looked at him dubiously before scowling and using him to climb up. When she was standing on her own two shaky feet, Rhys placed his hands lightly on her hips.

“Good?” He looked up at her from his knees. What a sight he must be. The High Lord of the Night Court, fury and death and pain, on his knees in front of what must seemed like a weak female.

In front of him, Feyre swallowed, hands raised as if to keep her balance. “Just a moment.” She breathed. Her legs still shook. When her knees buckled, her hands flew to Rhys’s wrists. He was already there, swooping up to gather her in his arms and standing.

Feyre sighed heavily, resting her head on his chest.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now.” Rhys took a chance and glanced up. Several pairs of eyes were glaring at him. He didn’t want to mention the shield, but clearly it was still up.

“Put me down.” Feyre squirmed, almost falling out of his grasp. Rhys gently set her down, keeping one arm respectfully around her waist. He held the other hand out for her, which she took after a moment’s hesitation.

Now he could really feel all the glares directed at him.

Tamlin stepped forward, leaning against the shield like Rhys had. “Feyre, let me come to you. Please.”

_I don’t want to lower the shield._ Feyre looked at Tamlin with glazed eyes. _I don’t want to be trapped._ She didn’t seem to realize the irony of her statement.

_So you would rather confine yourself here, with me?_ Rhys knew she hadn’t thought things out very far. _I’m flattered, really._

Feyre turned towards him, scowling. He raised his eyebrows, and she looked away. A second later, the shield fell and Tamlin tripped towards them.

Feyre took a step back. “I want to leave.”

Time seemed to freeze. Rhys couldn’t stop himself from gaping at Feyre, surprised that she made such a declaration.

Tamlin was the first to unfreeze, and he went right for Rhysand. “You! What did you do to her?”

“He didn’t do anything.” With every minute, Feyre seemed to regain her strength. She let go of the hand holding Rhys’s and took a shaky step forward. He almost stepped with her before thinking better of it. “You trapped me.” Feyre’s voice broke, and though her back was to him Rhys could tell there were tears on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry.” Tamlin said, but Feyre cut off any long-winded apology he might have.

“It doesn’t matter.” She took a shuddering breath. “I’m leaving.”

No one knew how to respond. This was Rhys’s moment, the time when he could pose the question. He could take her away from here forever, if she let him.

He never got the chance to speak. “And going where?” Beron stepped forward. Tamlin moved closer to Feyre, and she backed into Rhys the same time her came up behind her. They crashed into each other, but Rhys banded an arm around her waist and threw up his own shields against Beron.

“You’re welcome to the Night Court, as long as you need.” Rhys looked down at Feyre, silently pleading for her to say yes quickly so they could get the hell out.

“So you can use her powers for yourself Rhysand?” Beron didn’t dare stalk closer, but his eyes burned. “She took our powers. I want it back.”

Tamlin’s claws appeared again, the beast inside beginning to come out. Rhysand didn’t hesitate to release the glamour on his own power, pushing Feyre behind him for good measure. He could feel the protest on her lips. _Any other day I’d let you have a go at Beron, but considering you’re about as sure-footed as a new-born calf, would you let me handle it?_

_Fine._ Feyre grumbled, but stuck behind him. Her hand burned where it rested on his back, and he didn’t know if it was just him or if her hand had actually burst into flames.

“I know you’re accustomed to ignoring the wishes of females, Beron, but this one isn’t part of your court.” Rhys scanned his surroundings even as he made an attempt to look relaxed. The Spring Court sentries were on guard. For now, Tamlin was focused on Beron as the primary threat. The other High Lords, it seemed, were curious to see where things played out. Rhys chanced a glance at Helion. He might take Rhys’s side, but that one look told him that the High Lord of the Day Court wasn’t eager to get involved just yet.

Beron could read the scene too, and he backed off. “Well, she certainly can’t go with you. Your bargain was only for a week every month. You can’t take her for longer than that.”

Behind Rhys, it seemed like Feyre had enough of staying silent. “I am not an object.” She stepped in front of Rhys. His soul screamed at him to pull her back, protect her, but his mind pushed that part down. The shield he had erected before was still up, and Tamlin was still between Feyre and Beron. He would not be an overbearing male.

Beron sneered at Feyre. “You are Tamlin’s bride. You cannot simply go where you wish. Moreover, you cannot leave when you hold so much power, girl.”

“I will go where I wish.” Feyre’s fists clenched. “I will not be traded or shuffled around like some doll, and I’ll fight anyone who tries to treat me that way.”

By the Cauldron, he was in love with this woman.

Feyre stiffened, then whipped around to face him. Her eyes were wide, her face somehow paler. Rhys stumbled back, panic rising. Had he sent that across the bond? How was he supposed to account for a statement like that?

Feyre’s own thoughts were screaming across the bond. No, he had not revealed his heart to her.

Somehow, the mating bond had clicked into place for her.

The Cauldron had great timing. Why did it have to be now, in front of all these High Lords? What had triggered it?

_Mate. Mate. He’s my mate._ Feyre gaped. _No. How?_

Rhys knew that there was a possibility Feyre would reject the mating bond. More than a possibility. After what he had done to her, she would be crazy to accept him. Who would remain with the vicious High Lord of the Night Court, the one who lorded over the infamous Court of Nightmares?

Choice. He would always give her a choice. _We don’t have to tell anyone._ Rhys’s mind raced with ideas to explain what had shaken them both. _You’re not obligated to do anything, Feyre. We’ll keep it a secret. No one needs to know._

Feyre looked at him, something like shock and wonder in her eyes. Rhys swallowed thickly, not daring to meet the eyes of any of the confused males around him. That would mean questions, but he had to give Feyre a choice first.

A small shake of her head. Was that her answer, or was she still in shock? Still denying what had happened? He had been a mess after the mating bond had snapped into place for him. What she must be feeling must be a hundred times worse.

“What’s going on?” Tamlin growled. “What did you do?” Rhys didn’t dare look at Tamlin, but the other male came up to Feyre anyway and gripped her arm. She startled, backing away and looking frantically between the two High Lords.

_No one needs to know, Feyre._ He opened his mouth to tell a lie, maybe about how an errant thought about using her, manipulating her, had slipped? He was the villain in this story. It was a role he would easily slip into.

_I don’t want that._ Feyre blinked. Took a shuddering breath, but kept her eyes on him. _I don’t know what I want._

At the moment, Rhysand wasn’t quite sure either. But choice got ripped out of both of their hands. Helion stepped forward, inspecting them both carefully. “You’re mates, aren’t you?”

Damn Helion. Damn him and his whole court to the deepest pits of hell. Rhys could have tried to deny it, but Feyre’s guilty look gave up the game.

In a heartbeat, Tamlin shifted into his beast form, lunging at Rhys. Feyre cried out, but Rhys just waved a hand to knock Tamlin aside. He flicked his fingers to keep him down.

“I’m not going to force you into anything.” Rhysand looked Feyre in the eye and said it aloud. For her, for himself, and for the witnesses around them. “I swear on my court, my crown, my family. I will lay no claim of ownership on you.”

Though she was glassy eyed, Feyre nodded. “Can you let Tamlin up?”

He complied. This was it. Feyre was going to say she never wanted to see him again, and he would break the bargain between the two of them. He would hole himself up in the Night Court and make Mor to go any inter-court meetings.

Everyone was frozen waiting to see what Feyre would do next. Rhys couldn’t help the skip in his heart when she took a step towards him, then another until she was standing right in front of him.

When she raised a hand, he restrained himself from flinching back. Awful memories had no place here, not with his mate in front of him. She looked at him liked she had never seen him before. Her fingertips brushed his cheek, and he closed his eyes. Submitted to her, even if his skin crawled in the presence of all these High Lords.

A strangled sound from Feyre made him open his eyes. “You won’t…force me to…”

Rhysand shook his head before she finished her question. “Nothing. I swear it.”

Her hands dropped to her sides, but her eyes didn’t leave his. Rhys could feel the stares, the burning glowers on him. But all of that was a distant thought, because Feyre was in front of him and staying. She had every right to be disgusted with him—to scream and push and cower and reject everything that the High Lord of the Night Court was.

She didn’t do any of that. Instead, as if trying not to spook him, she reached out for his hands. Rhys didn’t realize they had been clenched until she took them in her own, cradled his large warrior’s hands in her soft artist’s.

_I don’t know what to do._ The admission must have been terrifying for her.

Rhys swallowed thickly, trying to avoid any fidgeting. _Pretend you never found out we were mates. Would you come to the Night Court?_

The wide-eyed look on her face told Rhys that she was having trouble envisioning that scenario. How could it be possible to pretend something so earth-shattering hadn’t just happened? To her, everything must have seemed different because they were mates.

For years, he had been dreaming about her. Of that, he was certain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had gotten used to this idea. Although Rhys had never allowed himself to hope for a mate, some inkling must have gotten through.

Years of adjusting and a presence in the back of her mind was not an advantage Feyre had.

“My invitation to come to the Night Court still stands.” Rhys squeezed her hands. “No expectations.”

Feyre opened her mouth, then let it fall shut. Tried again. “What would I do there?”

“Whatever you want.” Rhys imagined Feyre strolling down the streets of Velaris. Going out to Rita’s with Cassian and Mor and Azriel. Learning from Amren. Giddy with joy at all the hues of paint the Rainbow held. Swaying to the songs played by musicians on the banks of the Sidra. He could imagine her making a home there, even if that home didn’t include him. “But I can think of a few things you might enjoy.”

The tentative hope on his face seemed to be reflected in hers. Rhys’s breath caught when Feyre looked up at him with what might have been wonder.

“Absolutely not.” The moment was broken by Tamlin forcing his way in between the two. Rhys snarled, barely keeping his wits. He was a second away from tearing the other High Lord into ribbons. “I don’t know what you did to her, but she is not going with you.”

Feyre ducked around Tamlin, backing away from all of them. She kept her hands up, as if ready to ward off any attack. The brave human huntress was now the one being hunted, and Rhys’s heart broke.

“I will offer sanctuary.” Helion stepped forward, not deigning to look anywhere but Feyre, even as Rhys growled. “If you need to leave the Spring Court, I will offer you safety in mine.”

Beron snarled, and the other High Lords didn’t look that pleased either. But then Tarquin cleared his throat. “I will also offer you a place in the Summer Court.”

Shocked, Rhys could only stare at the two High Lords. If he couldn’t keep Feyre safe in the Night Court, this might be an acceptable alternative. Oh, it would wreck him for sure. But she would be safe.

Feyre crossed her arms, jaw set. “How do I know you wouldn’t abuse me and my power?”

Bowing his head and putting a hand on his chest, Helion swore an oath. Tarquin followed, but that barely seemed to convince Feyre. “And if I wanted to go to the Night Court? Would you let me go, and support my right to live where I wish?”

At this, the High Lords seemed less inclined to agree. Helion frowned, turning to look at Rhys. Their eyes locked, and Rhys hoped that Helion found whatever he was searching for. He had nothing else to give.

Before the High Lords could say anything, Feyre spoke again. “Would you let me go to another court?” This time the question was directed at him.

Every primal instinct told him to say no, but his heart won out. “Whatever you want. I just want you to be happy.”

Rhys didn’t expect tears to form in her eyes, for the force of emotion that nearly bowled him over. It took a moment for him to understand that she had never gotten that with Tamlin. She had never had someone who truly put her happiness first.

His own heart breaking, Rhys stepped forward to be closer to Feyre. She didn’t stop him. To his surprise, she closed the distance to hug him. “Thank you.”

Rhys barely had time to raise his arm to hug her back before she stepped away and faced the rest of the High Lords. Tamlin and Beron both looked likely to start a war, albeit for different reasons. Tarquin, Thesan, and Kallias looked on shrewdly, likely trying to calculate how these latest developments changed Court dynamics. But Helion looked on with something like amusement—being the only High Lord to be older than Rhys and know him well, he probably saw how flustered the High Lord of the Night Court really was.

Feyre addressed the most powerful males in Prythian. “I’m going to the Night Court. Rhys has convinced me that Hybern is a threat, to us and to the mortal lands. I’m going to do what I can to defeat him before he sets foot in Prythian. You may have given me your powers, but they are mine now. I will use them as I see fit.”

Then she turned to Rhys and spoke the most beautiful words he had ever heard. “Take me to the Night Court.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I enjoy Public Displays of Angst. Don't know why. It's fanfiction. Let me live. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! Let me know what your favorite line was, who I wrote out of character, or any typo you saw. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @thehaemanthus (book focused) or weavemeamyrtlecrown (a new url, again based on a fic, the most amazing fic I have ever read in my entire existence)


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